


heaven help the fool (who falls in love)

by breakeven



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Flirting, Ballet, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cooking, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Dates, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, NOW i'm done, Natasha Needs a Hug, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Natasha Romanov, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Bucky Barnes, This is the straightest thing I've ever written, Vaginal Fingering, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, and boy do i mean sloooow, if i'm writing it there's praise kink, nice, not bucky and nat, ok im done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakeven/pseuds/breakeven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re Bucky?” she says finally, after a long pause, “I was expecting a stray 17 year old Steve had saved from the terrible woes of life on the streets in Brooklyn or something. Where’s the accent?”</p><p>“If anything, I’m the one who adopted a stray,” Bucky snorts, “And I am decidedly not 17 years old, sorry to burst your bubble there, doll.”</p><p>(or: Natasha's a ballet dancer, James Barnes needs to be protected, and neither of them know how to not be alone anymore, but are very willing to learn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they meet, they drink, they smile, and they dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you right now, when I say slow burn. I mean SLOW BURN. Like. there's a helluva lot of background shit and development and not all that much /romance/ at this point. You've been warned, but please read anyway because it's really pretty mkay.

When Wanda calls, Natasha is at the gym. She trains like any other dancer in world, except maybe harder, with the grim determination of someone who means to be nothing less than perfection, and she takes her cardio days very seriously. They’re definitely not her favorite, and Wednesday mornings means she has to really force herself to get up and put the work in, but she finds she feels guilty if she doesn’t. The treadmill has become both her worst enemy and her most supportive, if reluctant, ally.

“Hello?” she pants into the mic of her bluetooth, slowing down to a brisk walk and picking up the remote to pause the music blaring from the speakers in the room.

“You’re not here!” Wanda whines, sounding excited and angry at the same time. Natasha looks at the time, 8:01 am, and shrugs to herself.

“I don’t have to be.”

“But you _should_ be,” Wanda sighs in quiet exasperation, “Callbacks are posted.”

Natasha, who has been in this business long enough to know that worrying who’s gotten what role will get her absolutely nowhere, rolls her eyes to herself and shrugs again. When she was younger, Wanda’s age, she’d get all bent out of shape like this about callback rosters and dancing like someone else to get the part she wanted, because obviously it was working for them, but now, all that shit flies over her head. She’s found that as long as she’s dedicated and sure of herself, what she deserves will come to her. Natasha prefers recognition from her higher ups over that from her peers and hasn’t concerned herself with something as trivial as a posted roster in years.

“And?” she asks, trying not to sound annoyed; Wanda’s great and Natasha always wants the younger woman to call her but she’s still power walking though, and she’d like to get back to running.

“I…well I _got_ called back, for one thing,” she states proudly, her accent thick with excitement, “and for another, I feel really good about the piece we’re auditioning with and I think I can get it. I think my best is enough for this one,” and that’s enough to make Natasha stop the treadmill completely.

Wanda is in her early twenties, very early, at 22 years old, and is one of the youngest dancers at the company. She was educated in eastern Europe, like Natasha herself, at an early age, but moved to London to study professionally and was granted many opportunities to find herself and get comfortable with her own style that Natasha was not. Watching her perform is always an experience, even if it’s only during rehearsals or watching her dance an ensemble member, because she has such a unique approach to ballet that it sets her apart from anyone else in the room. While Natasha finds watching herself to be incredibly embarrassing, it’s like watching a mannequin breathe, seeing Wanda on stage makes her remember why she’d been so passionate about ballet to begin with. Her childhood hadn’t been the happiest and dance had been her only outlet, the only form of structure in her life, and the only place she’d ever found praise, and that’s what made her pursue it; the gratification. With Wanda though, you can tell it’s about zest and love for the art. Natasha is inexplicably proud of the younger woman, even though her recognition is nothing of her doing.

“Your best is always good enough,” Natasha answers with a small smile, “but I’m glad you feel prepared for this. You deserve it.”

Wanda gives a surprised giggle, “Oh! Thank you, Natasha, really. But I did not call to talk about myself only. You got one too.”

That shocks Natasha. _Apollo_ is not a particularly classic piece, in fact most of it suggests more contemporary inspirations, as it’s largely post-baroque, something Natasha doesn’t dance often. She’s often cast as the lead in productions like _The Little Mermaid_ and _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ , because they’re all so distinctly classical in nature. There’s a certain rigidity to a piece like _Swan Lake_ that requires incredible precision and absolute perfection to be pulled off that Natasha knows delivers. And when _Apollo_ was announced she had not expected to even be considered for a lead role because there was just no way she’d be able to perform it the way the company would like.

“Me? For what _role_?” she scoffs, now stepping off of the treadmill totally. She feels completely floored by this news.

“Polyhymnia, of course. She’s the only one serious enough for you to dance,” Wanda scoffs too, “I think you’ll be wonderful.”

Natasha blinks, “Thank you,” she mutters, “I uh- well I’ll be in in a few hours to check and see for myself. See you then.”

“We will go out for drinks later tonight, yes? To celebrate?”

“Of course, of course. I’m really proud of you, of course we can go get drunk.”

“Nice,” Wanda giggles, “See you soon.”

The rest of her workout is done on autopilot after that, her mind spinning with a vague sense of confusion. She barely registers the burn in her legs an hour later when she steps off of the treadmill for good this time and stretches, all of the sweat dripping down her back goes unnoticed. She hadn’t even taken the audition process for this production seriously; when she gets tapped on her shoulder during warmups to practice privately for a director she thinks nothing of it, does what they say and moves on. She very rarely gets her hopes up for leading roles, except when they were putting on _The Little Mermaid_ because duh, and to have this one practically land in her lap is incredible. It’s an honor most dancers don’t ever receive; to be considered for a roll they hadn’t dared to dream of. With a cast as small as this one the girls were probably clawing each other’s eyes out to look at the callback list, and Natasha feels as though she’s cheated the ballet gods by not having been one of them.

The American Ballet Theater is only a few blocks away from the gym, which is why Natasha frequents, as do many of her coworkers and friends, and she nearly breaks into a run to get there. Inwardly, she’s beyond excited about this possibility; _Apollo_ is always a crowd favorite, if not often performed, and to have the opportunity to be one of the few ballerinas to famously take on a role in is incredible. Natasha bursts through the revolving door of the company dramatically and races down into the dressing rooms to go see where the callback sheets have been posted.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles to herself when she sees it. There’s her name, and Wanda’s, and Sharon’s too, and to see them fills her with such pride she’s almost hit by whiplash. Less selfishly, she checks the callback list for the men to see who’s being considered for the role of Apollo, and her thoughts are completely confirmed in doing so. Her face breaks into an even larger grin than the one that had been planted on her face not 30 seconds before, and she turns to stride down the hall to the men’s wing of dressing rooms to find Steve.

Knocking on his door before simply bursting in, Natasha calls out, “Apollo, my liege,” sarcastically and look around for him. He isn’t sitting at his vanity, the bathroom light isn’t on, and he’s not sitting on the couch facing the small television in the corner of the room, but someone else sure is.

“He went to find Natasha,” the someone else says. He’s leaned back casually on the couch, one arm spread along the back of it like he’s been here before. Natasha sure hasn’t seen him here before. She narrows her eyes at him.

“I’m Natasha. Who are you?” she asks skeptically, looking him up and down the best she can while he’s seated. His legs are very long, and so is, she notices disdainfully, his dark brown hair. She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m Bucky,” he states, “I’m his best friend. He called me when he found out about callbacks and I came right down.”

They consider each other for a moment. Natasha’s lip twitches. She doesn’t think she likes this guy much.

“ _You’re_ Bucky?” she says finally, after a long pause, “I was expecting a stray 17 year old Steve had saved from the terrible woes of life on the streets in Brooklyn or something. Where’s the accent?”

“If anything, I’m the one who adopted a stray,” Bucky snorts, “And I am decidedly _not_ 17 years old, sorry to burst your bubble there, doll.”

“Oh _there_ it is,” she sneers, turning on her heel to leave now. For some reason he rubs her the wrong way and Natasha wants nothing more than to get away from this Bucky person. He speaks too slowly for it to be anything but deliberate, and that in and of itself pisses her off. Plus, the too comfortable way he holds himself screams douchebag and she doesn’t need all that negative energy harshing her high.

In passing, she’s heard Steve mention the name before. Sometimes when he talks about being younger, before ballet had become a serious career plan for him, he’ll mention running around with some kid named “Bucky” who always took care of him. He’ll talk about going for Thai with “Bucky”, or even picking “Bucky” up from work after rehearsals, but in her mind’s eye, Natasha always envisioned someone as blonde and wholesome as Steve himself with the same big welcoming smile, not this scruffy looking jerk slouched on the couch in front of her. It’s hard to connect his sly looking face to the few stories she’s heard of him.

“There it is,” he chuckles in agreement, Natasha rolls her eyes and continues walking towards the door, her excitement slightly dampened, “Oh don’t go. Steve’ll be right back,” he drawls, waving her back in. She doesn’t really want to stay and wait with him, but she also doesn’t want to have to pretend to be excited to be introduced to him if she runs into Steve on her way out. She knows how much the guy means to Steve and she knows he’ll want everyone to like him as much as he does, and she isn’t that good of an actor. So she plants herself in the chair in front of Steve’s vanity and settles in to wait for his return in stony silence.

“So you’re Natasha?” he asks suddenly, probably trying to break the ice. Natasha sighs.

“I am.”

“He talks about you a lot, y’know. You and Wanda. He’s real happy here.”

“I bet. It’s great here,” she deadpans, practically burning a hole through the door with her eyes now and begging any deity that will listen to please let Steve come running through it. Nothing happens except Bucky keeps talking.

“Yeah. I’ve met a few people, Wanda for instance. Maria and Sam too. Real nice folks.”

“That they are.”

Bucky pauses.

“He did mention you were a little _cold_ , though. I think we saw you in _The Little Mermaid_? You were-,”

“Cold?” she interrupts, looking over at him sharply. He’s still reclined like some kind of prince, but he’s taken off his jacket now too, revealing a black t-shirt underneath and a left arm covered in intricate tattoos. They’re startlingly beautiful, done in wonderful colors with great linework. Natasha has always admired tattoos, and would consider getting some herself if not for her choice of career; looking at the ones Bucky has makes her want them even more. They somehow fit him too, like they complete him, and she’s loathe to admit that his arms are very nice.

“Yeah, y’know, like...detached? Like you aren’t too fr-,”

“I know what “cold” means in this context, Bucky,” she huffs, once again totally unimpressed with him.

“Then what the hell’d you ask for?” he laughs, smirking at her.

“I just didn’t expect that you did, I apologize,” she sneers rights back, turning her attention immediately back to the door. Where in the hell is Steve?

“See? There it is,” he says, and Natasha can still _hear_ the smirk, but she chooses to ignore it. The last thing she needs is for Steve to come back to his dressing room after such good news to find his childhood best friend dead.

It takes another 5 minutes but Steve finally does return. He’s grinning huge and wide, chest rising and falling quickly like he’s been running, and Natasha doesn’t doubt that he has for a second, and his cheeks painted red. He looks like a kid in a candy shop and the sight of him gets her adrenaline pumping once again. She can’t believe their luck. The two of them so rarely get to work together anymore, and it would be so amazing for this to be what reunites them on stage. She stands quickly and he all but runs across the room to scoop her up into a hug.

“Can you believe it Nat?” he whispers into her shoulder excitedly, squeezing her to his chest crushingly. All of the air in her body leaves her lungs in a quick _whoosh_ but she grips him just as tightly and rubs her hand in a circle over his back while they standing there rocking. Well he stands there, her feet are about 5 inches off the ground, “Can you believe they want _me_ as the lead?”

“Of _course_ I can believe it,” she replies just as fiercely, “If anyone’s gonna be the god of sunlight, it’s gonna be you Steve. No one else could do the story any justice. Of course they want you,” she assures him, just as he sets her down on the ground again. Her hands are still resting on his shoulders and his are still on her waist and they drag each other into one more hug before letting go, for real this time. They’re both grinning now, hers smaller and a little more private than his beam, but still. Natasha is stupidly proud of Steve, who’d come to the company not even 5 years before scared to death of the entire industry. He’d just been getting his feet wet at his other company before unforeseen circumstances prompted him to leave London and move back to his childhood home of New York, and coming back had been quite the experience. He’d been so uncertain before, never shy or forgettable, just so painfully unsure of himself that she couldn’t stand to see it, and she and Sam have since taken him under their wings.

“Yeah Stevie,” Bucky calls from the couch, standing up now and walking over to his best friend with open arms, “You’re gonna be fuckin’ brilliant,” and they hug just as hard as he and Natasha had.

As soon as sentiments are done being exchanged Natasha tries to excuse herself from the room, on the guise of going to congratulate Wanda and all of the other girls on their callbacks, Steve grabs her hand before she can. His palm alone is the size of her entire fist and he holds her in a steadfast grip as he looks her in the eyes.

“You’re comin’ out with us later, right?” he asks earnestly, searching her face intensely. Natasha swallows.

“Yeah of course,” she promises, “of course.”

The rest of the day consists of rehearsals for those who have been called back. She gets congratulations sporadically from other dancers, and even impressed looks from the few instructors she’s worked with over the years, having a great preference for a few of them, but otherwise she spends most of the day unbothered by everyone else. Before she leaves Sam visits her dressing room for even more fuzzy feelings and hugs and the like before sending her on her way with a very stern look regarding her promise to meet him and their friends at the bar a few blocks away in 2 hours.

“Why do you all keep doing that? Yes. I’ll be there,” she sighs exasperatedly as they push through the revolving doors of the company. She hikes the bag on her back a little higher as she hails a taxi, “I said I’ll be there,” she reassures him before sliding into the backseat of the car and slamming the door shut.

Her apartment is new, or it was nearly a year ago. It’s very sparsely furnished, the living room being populated with a white sofa and two navy loveseats, with a matching rug over her expensive light wood floors, and her bedroom not looking too different. There are a few pictures of her in costume on the mantle above her gas fireplace, one on the table beside the couch of her, Sam, and Steve all together after a performance gone perfectly two years ago, and not much else. It’s impeccably clean, a habit she’s kept even in her year of living alone, and there’s not even a TV because she can’t stand loud noises anymore. Coming home is always like checking into a hotel for the night, which is why she keeps so busy with practicing because she can’t stand looking at the singular mugs and plates in her kitchen sink, or lying alone in a cold bed. It’s cowardly, and a little pathetic, she knows, but it’s the only way she really knows how to cope. Whenever things get hard for her, ballet has always been there for her, and the last year has been no different. The only rooms in her apartment she can stand are the tiny little office she’s turned into a small studio, and her bathroom, and as soon as she drops her keys into the bowl beside the door she rushes towards the latter to wash the day’s stress away. Her muscles ache pleasantly and she does a few plies to stretch them out while the hot water beats against her. Tchaikovsky plays from her bluetooth speakers quietly and she hums to herself while trying to work up the nerve to go out.

It’s not like Natasha is afraid. She’s just unused to this, to being allowed, as sad as that is. Not twelve months before (that anniversary was in 5 weeks), she’d been given the gift of life all over again when those papers had been signed, but that doesn’t mean she’s figured out how to use it yet. For 4 years before that her entire existence had been totally consumed by the wants of someone else, and the fear of not delivering them the way she needed to, and to suddenly be expected to know how to dedicate herself to-, well... _herself_ again was totally ludicrous. She was almost totally out of practice in being Natasha _Romanoff_ so wholly that it’s often hard to remember that she had done things Natalia Shostakov had not been permitted to do. Sometimes those thoughts, that muscle memory, flood her mind like the _1,2,3,4_ of plie music, and she just can’t shake them.

She takes the subway back into Manhattan to meet her friends at Luther’s. It’s a little more upscale than a hole in the wall joint she and Steve would prefer, but they’ve invited people from the company who probably aren’t willing to venture all the way into Brooklyn for a beer, and so she and him will just have to make due. Her heels click quietly on the pavement as she walks and she nervously works their tapping into a rhythm in her head, making music of it. This is something she does to distract her from the outside world, a habit she picked up a long time ago, and she sort of gets lost in it for a while. When she was younger, Grandmother would swat her wrists with a wooden spoon when she was caught zoning out like this, completely unfocused on posture or her speech or whatever important lesson she was supposed to be learning, and so Natasha had forcibly grown out of it when she was a teenager. Her internal music production career picked up again though, when she met Alexei.

Luther’s is supposed to be like a home away from  home type of place. They have local beers on tap, and it’s New York so the music is always lively native shit, but unlike a little crawlspace of a bar, it’s clean and oriented towards the young and trendy, like a restaurant. She pushes her way through the doors with a sigh, shaking off the night’s chill and taking off her jacket, before walking up to the hostess and mentioning that she’s here for a group of friends. The young lady waves her off towards the back of the bar, where there are private booths behind the small dance floor. Natasha weaves her way through the crowd easily, being as small as she is, and when she gets to the quieter side of the bar she straightens to look around for her friends. Unfortunately, she must turn herself to the side a little too quickly, because as she does, she knocks in the very solid chest of the man standing next to her. His reflexes are as fast as hers and he catches her arms just as she reaches out to steady herself; her hands end up wrapped around his forearms and vice versa.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, sort of setting her back into her own balance and stepping away from her. His grip had been very strong and sure, not painful in the least, but also surprisingly uncomfortable. Natasha looks up at him, ready to let this guy have it for touching her even though logically she knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, when she gets a good look at his face.

“Oh fuck,” she sighs, “What are _you_ doing here?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and laughs, pretending to dust her shoulders off. Natasha fights the urge to flinch at his touch, “I didn’t realize that my presence was going to cause you any problems.”

“I don’t have a problem with you being here,” she disagrees quickly. Bucky starts walking away from her, leaving her standing alone for a few moments before she catches up with the program and following after him, “I was just shocked, is all.” He moves quickly in a very self assured way that makes the few groups of people this deep into the bar move out of his way and for some reason that makes Natasha’s skin crawl.

“Shocked?” he scoffs, “You seemed to have a more passionate reaction that that.”

They break a sudden right and Natasha scrambles to keep up, “Passionate? Me? Nah,” she replies sarcastically, just as they arrive at the booth full of their friends. Everyone has changed into nicer clothes, except for Bucky who’s still in the same plain black t-shirt, and they’re all smiling up at her. Sam, Maria, and Sharon all have pints in their hands already, and Sam’s is half gone, while Wanda sips at what looks like a chocolate martini. Her eyes are a little unfocused, so she must have had a few already, and her cheeks are flushed with it. Natasha takes them all in with a smile of her own, suddenly overwhelmingly happy to have them all, and thoroughly grateful to have been invited out in the first place. She knows she hasn’t been much fun to be around for the duration of most of her relationships with these people, and to have them stick with her means a lot.

“You’re right,” Bucky smirks, interrupting her mushy thoughts, “you’re a little too _cold_ ,” his laugh is deep and self-satisfied, and he slides into the booth right next to Steve with ease, completely comfortable being so close. Natasha worms her way into the spot next to Wanda and settles her jacket on her lap before throwing her arm over the back of the seat.

“How’s everyone?” she asks, studiously deciding to ignore Bucky’s comment. Steve looks between the two of them with a furrow in his brow. Bucky gives a small shake of the head and his expression smoothes. Natasha pretends not to have noticed.

“Fan-fan _tastic_ ,” Wanda snorts, holding her glass in the air.

“I second that,” Sam calls out, raising his too.

“Wanda’s already had a few,” Maria explains calmly, but she holds her pint up high as well. Natasha, who doesn’t have a drink, decides to be a little bold, and reaches across the table for the drink sitting in front of Bucky. She doesn’t really know what possesses her to do it; she met the guy a few hours ago and she isn’t entirely at ease in his presence, but she sort of wouldn’t mind seeing him get all flustered and annoyed with her. If she’s cold then he’s downright arctic in his own right. Absolutely nothing can wipe the perpetual smirk off of his face, from what is seems, and she feels a small fist of determination grip her chest with every inch her hand covers though, so she does it despite her reservations. He seems to realize what she’s doing right as her hand casts a shadow over his shot and he tries, futilely, to stop her.

Her fist closes around his fancy glass of tequila, “Bottom’s up then?” she arches an eyebrow at him with a triumphant simper, watches the slow and impressed look cross his face, and throws the shot back like a champ. When she slams the glass down on the table everyone’s laughing at their own empty glasses, Wanda especially, but Bucky’s looking right at her. His eyes aren’t blue like Steve’s, they’re not clear and steady like a tide or the sky, but they’re gray like rain or the caps of a mountain. Natasha doesn’t want to be cliche, but they’re gorgeous, and she finds herself stuck in a moment as she stares right back at him.

Until he sneers at her, beautifully, playfully, and breaks it, “That was cute,” and it’s not mean or sarcastic when he says it, so if Natasha is being honest with herself, she fights not to blush. Sam is leading his own conversation about something or the other, loudly and happily, but Natasha isn’t really paying too much attention because Bucky is talking to her. She’s never been the type of girl to pine or crush, and she’s sure that’s not what this is, but again, he makes her feel something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. It’s like fear, it sits in her belly hotly and prowls the edges of her thoughts like fear, but it’s not. He makes her nervous and scared but not like Alexei. She isn’t scared to disappoint him or to make him angry; in fact all she wants out of him is some kind of reaction, one that isn’t rehearsed and prepared for someone else. She likes him teasing her, she thinks, she just isn’t too sure if she likes him in any capacity at all. She likes his mouth, his arms are impressive.

“Get a couple of more drinks in me and it’ll be downright terrifying,” she drawls, and the grin he gives her in return is positively predatory.

“Oh really? I can’t imagine you being too scary,” he challenges with a chuckle and a wave of his hand at a waitress.

“You won’t have to imagine in a few.”

“You drinkin’?” he asks. The waitress comes over and Bucky order two more tequilas after a nod from Nat, “Good. I’m the kinda guy who’s gotta see it to believe, y’know what I mean?” And Natasha nods, because yeah she does, she knows what he means.

Maybe 4 hours later, Wanda is beyond the point of “adorably tipsy” and is being supported by the muscles of Sam and Steve, respectively, and Maria is searching through her purse for her phone to call her brother to come pick her up. Natasha’s never seen Wanda go this hard before and quite frankly, she’s still amused, but Steve seems genuinely worried for her health so she just says nothing. Instead, she wraps herself in her leather jacket again and secretly congratulates herself on a night well done. It’s rare that she goes out and lets herself cut so loose; she hasn’t done something like this with an absence of guilt in years and it’s incredibly liberating. She’s got a couple of drinks swimming around in her, so she’s got a nice buzz going, she laughed until she thought her lungs were going to burst with Sharon over a spilled cosmopolitan, Sam gave her that quietly satisfied smirk he gives to all of his friends when he thinks they’re doing something good for themselves, and even Maria hugged her before turning away to wrangle Wanda.

Bucky is a little farther off from the group like Natasha, lighting up a cigarette, “Smoke?” he offers her, though his voice is muffled with the butt of the cigarette in his mouth. He shoves the lighter into his back pocket and bunches himself into his jacket against the cool, wet breeze.

“I’m a professional dancer,” she raises an eyebrow at him. He shrugs back, taking a second to breathe out a cloud of smoke.

“It relieves stress,” he states with a private chuckle. Natasha rolls her eyes. She feels a little more comfortable around him now; how could she not after drinking with him for a whole night. When he laughs he scrunches his nose up, and right now, in the cold, he’s brushing a strand of his dark, damp hair behind his ear. It isn’t a nervous habit at all, because Natasha has watched for those and he doesn’t seem to have any. It’s strangely relaxing, to know that he’s sure of where and who he is. It’s nice to know that he’s consistent in himself, and that makes her feel less like she needs to act around him. And while she wouldn’t go pouring her deepest, darkest secrets out to him, Natasha does feel like he’s a trustworthy guy. He hasn’t tried anything on her, hasn’t even looked at her the wrong way, and that speaks volumes about him. In that way, the respectful actually _good_ way, he reminds Natasha of Steve. She understands why they’re friends a little better.

“What’s got you stressed out Bucky?” she laughs now too. It comes easily.

“More than you’d think, doll,” he assures her darkly. This time, they both laugh.

“Sounds like you need it more than I do.”

“Yeah. Just thought I’d ask,” and okay, well. Natasha doesn’t know how to reply to that so she just nods.

On her train ride home, Natasha fights a blush as she thinks about things she’d like to ask Bucky.

***

The next few days are a blur of preparation. Wanda spends about 36 hours pretty much flying off at the hinges while she obsessively rehearses a piece she couldn’t do any more perfectly, Steve worries his bottom lip to a bloody mess, and Natasha can feel herself being more snappish with her peers than usual. After the bar she’d felt a little normal again, close to them in a way she hasn’t been in a while, but now, she’s pretty sure that had all been a ruse, even to herself. She’s just not meant to be that kind of person.

After grueling hours of learning audition choreography, she goes home to her little studio and forces herself to run the routine again and again and when she wakes up in the morning she does her plies and battements with heavier weights than usual around her ankles. Every little imperfection and mistake she notices about her technique has her wanting to rip her hair out of her fucking scalp and the more she hears her friends tell her she’ll be fine, or that she’s going to be wonderful, the more she wants to burn the building down. She glares at herself in the mirror as she stretches her hamstring and whirls on Maria like some kind of hellion when she tells Natasha that her new pointe shoes are doing wonders for her posture. She’s sleeping even worse than usual.

“Maybe you need a break,” Steve says Friday afternoon on their lunch break. His hair is still sweaty and matted to his forehead from their morning instructions, but the waitress serving them doesn’t seem to care about this, or his smell, because everytime she comes to check in on them she gives him serious fuck me eyes. Usually Natasha wouldn’t care, she’s used to it and so is Steve, but today is not her day. The girl, blonde and too young for Steve, starts walking towards them and Natasha catches her eye pointedly and shakes her head slowly.

“I don’t need a goddamned _break_ ,” she snipes at him, not taking her eyes off of the now horrified waitress. She waits until the girl breaks eye contact to turn back to Steve, “I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah, because that’s normal behavior,” he snorts, poking his tofu glory bowl with an air of sarcasm only he can manage.

“It is if you’re me.”

Steve pauses, “Well I can’t argue with that,” he rolls his eyes and Natasha takes a bite out of her mushroom reuben like she’s mad at it. Maybe she is; vegan food is pretentious as hell.

Sunday night she has the nightmare again and she wakes up at 4:16 am in a cold sweat, trying not to breathe too fast. She knows she’s alone but it’s instinct at this point to search frantically around the room for another body. Her left hand pats at the sheets while she stares into each corner of her room, itching with paranoia. When it’s passed, she gets up and makes her way to the bathroom for a long shower. She hasn’t had the nightmare in so long that she’s actually fearful, like her hands are actually sporting a fine tremor and she knows that if she looks at the skin on her left shoulder it’ll be red and irritated with her anxious scratching. She’ll have to wear cardigans over her leotards for the next few days and that reminds her of what hiding was like before. It’s so visceral, the fear and the memories, that she basically shuts down every function that doesn’t involve her scrubbing herself clean and stepping back into her bed, this time covered in layers of clothes and sweet smelling perfume to chase away the scent of his musky, spicy cologne.

Waking up again is like opening her eyes to a little slice of hell. It’s Monday, so she’s expected in earlier than 9 am, but her eyes are nearly glued shut with all of the tears she’s shed in her sleep, and Natasha’s body aches something fierce. It’s not the normal “professional dancer” body ache that’s always sort of lingering in her, but instead this ache is of the deep and unwanted bruise variety. It makes her lethargic and sad enough that she considers getting in her Volvo and fucking _driving_ to work so that she doesn’t have to be touched by people on the subway, but that thought is immediately crushed because she knows she’s in no state to drive. What this means is that she follows the sickeningly familiar steps of getting dressed to perform for everyone she knows. The marks on her shoulder, that she predicted, are festering and painful but she covers them expertly with a layer of concealer and a giant makeup puff and a light sweater. To draw attention away from the bags under her eyes she rolls on some concealer there too, and fills her coffee mug with plain warm lemon water so that caffeine doesn’t make her hands shake more than they already are. On top of her head, her hair is twisted into a loose bun so as not to further agitate the migraine she can feel building behind her eyes. Natasha is positively miserable throughout the entire process. Knowing she’ll have to act like herself, act like she’s focused and ready for whatever the day will throw at her, is enough to scare her into wanting to burrow back under her covers, but knowing that she’d be disappointed in herself later if she did makes her lock the door behind her and hustle into a cab.

At the company the lights are too bright. The main lobby is mostly for visiting tourists and enthusiasts who’d like to see what real ballerinas get up to, so it’s sleek and modern in decoration, and, unfortunately for Natasha, bright as hell. Everything’s white and reflective and she’s sensitive to it, so she has to fight back a gag and quickly walk to the elevators to get down to the dressing rooms. Mondays are usually pretty good for her, because they mean she gets to practice all day long with little to no interruption, and as she huffs and rests her weight on the back wall of the elevator, she can’t help but be frustrated with herself for letting something as simple as an audition ruin it for her. She’s frustrated that she even let Wanda’s excitement get the best of her, she’s so frustrated with herself for breaking her own rules about hope in this industry, because look what it’s done to her. Natasha is fucking _frustrated_ , okay, and she’s tired to boot. The stress has brought the dream back; filled with too loud noises and splattered with flashes of dripping red, her nails are bitten unattractively down to the quick, and she’s sure that by the time the actual results of the auditions are posted, she’ll have lost 10 pounds at the least. Alexei always said she never could really take care of herself and she’s absolutely livid with herself for hearing his voice in the back of her head again. She’s supposed to be above all of this shit.

The elevator gently stops at the lower level and Natasha perks up and gets ready to walk out. She forces herself to clear her throat and shake out her shoulders a bit, just to get out of her own head for a few moments until she can get lost in the music while she dances, and when she looks up she locks eyes with the steady gaze of Bucky.

“What even is your name?” she blurts wildly. The sight of him, broad and strong and seemingly angry, startles her into flinching away from him. His hands are clenched into fists and his nostrils are flared. Natasha’s heart starts to race as he studies her face before stepping into the lift with her. She steps away some.

Still regarding her with those strangely intense eyes, Bucky blinks owlishly at her before laughing quietly, “James,” he says in a low voice, like he’s tired, “My real name is James Barnes.”

Natasha starts towards the doors, “Where’d you get Bucky?” she asks incredulously. The tension in his shoulders dissolves a little when she snickers, so she opens her mouth up again, “and why the hell do you still let people _call_ you that? You’re a grown man,” and she’s out of the elevator now but his lips are twitching into a small smile. Something about that makes the cold fingers gripping her lungs ease their hold.

“My middle name is Buchanan. I’m pretty sure Steve came up with it when we were like, _seven_. And I don’t know. Everyone’s always called me Bucky, even my parents,” he shrugs and while it’s a jerky movement, it’s very him. He leans against the wall and smirks at her, “You can call me whatever you like though, sugar,” he quips. His voice has none of its usual drawl but Natasha reacts the way she always would, for his benefit.

“Okay Period Cramp, see you later,” she scoffs, and walks away quickly, listening to the sound of his loud laughter with a small smile of her own.

As soon as she gets to her own dressing room, Natasha sits down and starts to stretch. She plays Mozart in the background and sips her stupid lemon water, thinking all the while about what she wants to know about Bucky- or about  _ James_. The name doesn’t really suit him, but neither does Bucky, and she finds that she likes it. He laughed when she said it and she likes the way he laughs; she thinks maybe you could discover all the secrets of the universe in the laugh of the right person. That train of thought has her gritting her teeth against a blush, but she rides it anyway. She thinks about his tattoos, how intricate and gorgeous they are. The contrast of the deep reds and blacks again his tan skin is amazing, and he’s obviously in great shape on top of all of that, and Natasha is loathe to admit that she really likes looking at him. Though she’s only talked to him a few times, she can say that she could like him. They could be good friends, like she and Steve are. She could go shopping with James, she could laugh at his jokes. It wouldn’t be hard at all. 

There’s a knock on her door that interrupts all of her waxing poetic about him, and she’s a little grateful for it. Recounting the way his lips curved around his cigarette was a nice distraction from how terrible she feels, but still, it’s embarrassing to be getting all weepy over a man she barely knows, especially when she  _ does _ know herself. 

“I hope you’re decent, ‘cause I’m comin’ in. Better yet, don’t be,” Sam calls as he walks into her room. He’s being trailed by Maria, who is mid eye roll when she smiles at Natasha down on the floor, and they fall onto her small gray couch simultaneously. Natasha doesn’t make an effort to move an inch, just turns her head up to look at them both.

“Yes?” she says, when neither of them speak. Maria looks to Sam.

“So we know we just got you out last week, and we’re so glad that you decided to come,” he starts, and Natasha nods gratuitously, “but we’re planning something for Tony and Pepper this Saturday and we’d love for you to come. It’s going to be at one of the country clubs in the Hamptons,” Sam states smugly.

“How’d you swing that?” Natasha gasps, impressed, not one to let an effort like that go unnoticed.

“I have my ways.”

“So you used Tony’s name?”

Maria jumps in now, “We didn’t want to feel like you had to say yes in front of everyone else, that’s why we came here separately.”

“Oh,” Natasha nods to herself, “It’s Saturday, you said?” and the thing is, Natasha really wants to be there. She knows that it’ll be a beautiful event, no matter when or where it is because Pepper and Tony are worth splurging for. She knows there will be lots of laughs and smiles and it should be so fun to go and be amongst her friends, but she also knows that the morning of she’d have to drag herself out of bed. She knows that she’d be filled with anxiety for the days to come just thinking about it. Planning her hair and makeup would stress her out for hours; she’d have to force herself to look in the mirror and concentrate on just her face. And Natasha knows, without a single doubt in her mind, that she’d have to deal with the guilt. After getting all dolled up and practicing the smile that makes people want to talk to her, Natasha would get in her cab and think that she doesn’t deserve these friends who spend so much time trying to make her comfortable, and that she doesn’t deserve this invitation, when she’d do nothing but bring the mood down, and psyche herself out of truly enjoying herself until she’s got a few drinks running through her bloodstream. Natasha wants to go so badly, but on top of the nightmare rearing its head in her mind again and her anxiety about the audition, she doesn’t know if she should allow herself to do so. She can’t say all of that to Sam and Maria though so she just grimaces at them.

“Yes, Saturday beginning at 4 pm,” Maria confirms, studying her face. Maria has always been really good at reading all of them, even while seeming to be the most detached. She’s a wonderful friend to have; she doesn’t hover but she always shows concern and Natasha admires that about her. Right now though, she wishes that weren’t the case, because the look in Maria’s eyes seems to say that she already doesn’t buy a single thing that’s about to come out of Natasha’s mouth. Natasha can’t say she really blames her. 

“I uh-, well I don’t know,” she sighs, and decides to go on and tell the truth, “I had lots of fun last week with all of you but I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the kind of crowd Pepper and Tony tend to draw.”

Sam starts to get this sympathetic look in his eyes and it makes Natasha cringe, it really does. She hates that people look at her like that. She doesn’t want pity, she doesn’t want to be made to feel ashamed of what’s happened to her, she can do that all on her own. Natasha bristles with agitation at all of the coddling, but before either of them can say anything Maria interjects.

“That’s fine,” she assures, “I assumed you’d say as much. Just let us know, okay? Your place is reserved no matter what.” Everyone nods and it’s silent but the point has been made.

When the two of them leave Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. She finishes her stretches in peace and makes her way to rehearsals without incident. Like she wanted, Natasha’s able to lose herself in the music and the technique of it all. Her arches ache like they should, her arms waver by the end of class from being held over her head for so long, and she can feel the healthy flush in her cheeks warming her up. From experience Natasha knows that the light blush will draw attention away from the unnatural concealing under her eyes, and she’s both grateful and extremely bothered by this information. 

After her first round of rehearsals, Natasha makes her way through to dressing rooms to go find Steve. His classes always finish a little earlier than hers and so he usually picks up lunch for the two of them and waits for her in his room. When she was still with Alexei, Natasha had to be very careful about eating lunch with Steve because she never wanted to worry her fiance. In the past year without him, it’s felt good to be able to walk wherever she wants. She hadn’t really realized how much she was missing trying to keep him happy and her skin free of bruises, but now that she doesn’t have to think about that, she also doesn’t have to think about anything concerning her lunch except the normal “how many calories is this?” concern. Natasha has barely knocked on Steve’s door when he throws it open. 

“I’m in a shit mood so excuse the  _ fried foods _ ,” he stage whispers those last words and drags her into the room, casting a glance up and down the hallway like some cliche spy movie. Natasha snorts and throws herself onto his couch, in the place where Bucky had sat when they first met. She feels herself being creepy and imagining she can detect the scent of whatever cologne he wears. Natasha’s not even sure she’s ever stood close enough to him to know, but still. It’s a good thing her cheeks were already tinged pink with exertion because she knows she’s blushing a little. 

“What could possibly have a specimen like yourself lowering his standards to such atrocities?” she wonders aloud as he shoves her to-go bowl of strange wheat noodles down the coffee table. His eyes narrow in the determined, righteous way they often do when he’s angry about a  _ Battle of Morals _ before he rolls them and sighs. He’s sitting in the chair in front of his vanity, looking all the while like the god Apollo himself, and when he opens his mouth to speak Natasha wouldn’t be surprised if he really were to burst out into song. It’s a weird thought. 

“It’s just- you know my friend Bucky?” Steve groans a little, while dipping what looks like a  _ french fry _ into something resembling  _ ketchup _ . Natasha gives him a scandalized look, that he replies to with a defiant arch of an eyebrow before she answers him.

“I’ve met him on multiple occasions Steve. His name’s James. I even saw him before rehearsals.”

“No kidding? He came here this morning to bring me coffee after not coming home last night. No call, no text, not even a damn smoke signal, to tell me that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere or drowning in his own vomit.”

“In his defense, if it were the case, he wouldn’t really be able to call and tell you he was drowning in his own vomit or dead,” they both roll their eyes, “He’s a grown man, Steve. You’re not exactly responsible for him,” she slurps on her noodles to break some of the oppressive silence.

“Yeah no, I know. It’s just- okay Buck runs this tattoo shop out near our place and it’s great, right? I’m real proud of him and all, it’s just that whenever he’s not there working he tends to fall back into some of his old... _ habits _ . This isn’t really any of your concern, sorry, I know you’ve got you’re own-,” he snorts derisively at himself, running a hand through his hair almost angrily, like he can’t believe he’s saying all of this.

“Hey,” Natasha says quietly, “it’s okay if you tell me about this,” she assures him, “I don’t mind listening.”

And Steve gets this really cloudy look in his eyes, like he’s looking at something in the distance and it’s very bright. He tilts his head to the side and Natasha very seriously for a second, “Yeah, okay,” and he takes a nice deep, steadying breath, “Bucky just gets in his own head sometimes, y’know? He served for a while and when he came home he was very different and he never really coped with all the shit that happened over there very well. I was still in London when he first got back stateside, or else I’d’ve done something, but he was in a real bad way. And he was tattooin’, I knew, so I figured if he was keepin’ a steady job he was fine,” he sighs, “and yeah- okay he’d call me sometimes drunk off his ass asking me to come get ‘im like I wasn’t an ocean away, and it happened more often than I figured was okay, but he seemed to be okay.”

“Anything he was going through Steve, you know that wasn’t your fault right? You couldn’t have done any more for him had you been here.”

He nods, “Yeah. Everyone’s said that. He got really out of control for a while though, wouldn’t talk to anyone, stopped working.”

“Is that why he moved in with you?”

“Yeah. And then he used his VA loan to buy his shop, and I thought he was really getting back to- just getting better. He doesn’t drink to get drunk anymore, he stopped hanging around some of those folks from before. He’s doing his best, I know, and I don’t mean to hover-,”

“It’s just hard not to worry?”

“And he feels so bad about making me worry. He thinks I don’t know, but I can tell.” 

Steve’s done with his (veggie) burger and fries in record time, so they sit there in silence and just think. Steve’s the kind of guy that watches out for his friends, he’s the kind of guy who blames himself for someone else’s mistakes and that sort of makes Natasha sad. She hadn’t realized that he was dealing with something so serious, and for him to have felt like he couldn’t talk to her about it is unacceptable. She was Steve’s first real friend when he came to the company; the only person who was willing to lose the frigid politeness of the ballet industry, the only person who would dish as well as they got when it came to him. People had treated him with kid gloves, or like he was something pretty to be kept in a glass box because the directors had loved him so much. He and Natasha could spend hours just ribbing each other, though, and it felt good for both of them to escape the loneliness of their separate lives together. When the two of them had become friends, things had just started up with Alexei and she was head over heels in love with him, she would have done anything to keep him close and keep him happy, but she would still go home to their apartment (that they bought after only 5 months of dating) and feel just as cold and empty as the bed he so rarely returned home to. All of her colleagues that she’d known for years before had stopped really interacting with her. They drifted away when she stopped being able to come out, and when she would break down into angry, rage filled tears at the simplest of missteps in routine while they rehearsed. Steve bore the brunt of her spiral though. He made her laugh and he was her shoulder to cry on, he was healing hands after a fight with Alexie, and he got her through the roughest breakup she could ever imagine. And she had gotten him through his best friend’s apparent battle with what seems like PTSD and a nasty drinking problem. It’s not something she realized she’d done, but it feels sort of good to know that she’s helped someone as selfless as Steve Rogers. It’s shocking.

The shock is also, in part, because of what she’s just found out about James. It’s easy to say “oh it’s not your fault” to someone watching another person bleed themselves dry on a path of self destruction, because it’s true and those people deserve to hear it, but it’s not very easy to put a face to that struggling, ticking time bomb of a person on the other side of the story. Especially not if that face looks like James Barnes. He’s the picture of all American healthiness, well built in a way that shows that he takes pride in his appearance (not that he’s a necessity, or a weapon to be used), and always grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Natasha never would have expected, what with the easy way he carried himself and the nonchalant way he drank with her at the bar. If she  _ had _ known she probably would’ve actually taken every shot away from him and did it herself to protect him from his own body. Better yet, she’d have hustled him the hell out of that place and… well she doesn’t know what she would’ve done after that but the point still stands.

“I want him to be okay,” Steve says finally, “that’s why I introduced him to all of you; because you’re all real good at making a guy feel normal.”

Natasha nods and decides then that if anyone deserves to feel normal, it’s James Barnes, with the slickest smile in the city, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t at least try to make him feel that way.

***

By Thursday, the audition day, Natasha’s hands have not stopped shaking in 6 hours, her second toe on her left foot is missing a toenail, and the scratching rash on her back is a disgusting pinkish yellow tinged thing that no man would ever want to look at. Everytime she sees it she thinks about the face Alexei would make if he saw it, and she just about turns green with sickness. That look always made her stomach drop into her toes and that definitely isn’t helping her situation. The nightmare has gotten fairly more dramatic, this time paired with screaming and a horrifically accurate memory of their hard oak floors in the foyer of their apartment rushing up to meet her face in vivid technicolor. She wakes up Thursday morning just before her nose and knees can crush against the floorboards sweating and crying a little. 

The audition though, is something else. She’s been practicing almost obsessively and she’s got every step, every wave, every flutter of the bones in her ankles memorized and when the music starts playing she can focus on the  _ feeling _ of it all. It’s like flying, dancing like this, being cut open and strewn about like this. After the last shaking, spinning turn she gives, Natasha’s skin feels flayed apart, she feels naked in the best way, as if she’s been bared in front of a lover who can see the barest pieces of her. She leaves everything she has on the floor in front of Director Bradley, whose inscrutable face gives away nothing about her opinion on the performance Natasha gives, but that’s okay because she knows it was the best she had to give, and she’s fine with that. 

Natasha feels so great after her audition that she runs to Wanda’s dressing room, because it’s closer than Sam’s or Steve’s and just bursts right in. Wanda is on the floor, curled in on herself and rocking back and forth, but her lips stretched into a mad grin. There’s a quick babbling in some other language coming from her couch and when Natasha looks over it’s her twin brother, Pietro, and he’s beaming from ear to ear to.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says to him before turning to Wanda excitedly, “How’d yours go?” she asks, sinking to the floor in front of her friend. This behavior is so so not her, but she’s not being reprimanded by anyone so Natasha feels like she can get away with being a little hysterical. She knows she won’t have anyone to celebrate with once she gets home anyway, so she might as well make the most of it right now. 

“Natasha, Natasha,” Wanda sighs dreamily, falling backwards onto the floor dramatically, startling a giggle right out of Nat and her brother, “It was wonderful. I felt- oh  _ god _ \- I felt like I was dancing a piece that I’d choreographed.”

Natasha sighs wistfully, getting comfortable on the floor, “I felt like I was dreaming,” she admits quietly. Because it’s true. That dance had been like a dream, so beautiful and perfect that she can’t remember it at all. Nothing like the nightmare at all. And she’s still anxious as hell; she doesn’t know if she’ll get the part or not, she doesn’t know how the hell she’ll prepare if she does get it, and she isn’t sure who her two tickets are going to be given to come opening night, but that’s okay because Wanda felt great and she felt great, and this is great. She’s going to celebrate with all of her friends on Saturday when they’re all together for Tony and Pepper and for the first time in months, the ugliness inside of her doesn’t feel like it’s creeping through the seams of her skins and displaying itself in a monstrous lucidity. She feels totally stitched together.

That night Natasha pulls a dress out of her closet that she hasn’t worn in her life, ever. It had been a gift from Pepper months ago when the other woman had invited her to a charity gala that she’d bailed on last minute. That had been when everyone was trying to treat her the way they did before Alexei and it was decidedly not working. Anyway, the dress is this gorgeous navy blue number by Chanel, and it’s a simple flared one that does wonders for Natasha’s curves. It falls right above her ankles like she’s some kind of 60s housewife, and the floral designs are coral and pink and accented with with real pearls. It probably ran for at least $1,000. She’s always felt bad for never having worn it, and she can’t think of a nicer time to do so. 

Saturday morning, Natasha feels differently. She’s going, oh there’s no way in hell she’s backing out  _ now _ , but she isn’t sure if she’s up to having a good time. The buzz from the audition has worn off a little, and the dress has been lying over a chair in her dining room for a few days, and every time she looks at it, she gets less and less sure that she’ll look good in the damn thing. As she sits on the floor in front of her full length mirror, curling her hair and waiting for the powder on her face to set, Natasha feels a snake of anxiety slither down her back and wrap itself around the base of her spine. She tries to ignore it for her own sake. 

The venue is beautiful. The outside is rustic Victorian or something, none of that modern shit that Tony and Pepper are both very fond of, but the inside is another beast in and of itself. She isn’t sure who Sam hired to do this, but Natasha is instantly impressed with the decorating when she walks in. The high ceilings are heavy with chandeliers that throw bright gold light everywhere, the long table towards the left of the room has one long glimmering tablecloth draped across it that glints like the thread is actually made of gold. There’s a dance floor and an open bar, the stage has a small fucking orchestra set up.

“Nat!” Sam calls from up near the table of gifts and food. He looks totally dapper in his tuxedo, and when she makes her way over, he spins Natasha is a grand circle to admire the dress she’s wearing. Objectively, she’s sure she looks wonderful; the dress is amazing. Internally though, she’s not so sure she’s worth really getting all excitable about. She doesn’t say this, only takes his compliments with a pinched smile and a small blush, but quickly changes the subject before  _ someone’s _ voice makes its way into her head to tell her all of the things that are wrong about the way she looks. She and Sam exchange pleasantries while he directs staff members in how to arrange the platters of hors d'oeuvres, and when Maria comes over they share a sweet, chaste kiss that makes something tight and surprisingly hurt inside of her throb like a cavity. She watches the way they interact with a vague, sad sense of longing. She doesn’t miss Alexei, she doesn’t think, but she misses  _ something _ . The physical closeness of someone whose sweat even smells good to you, it must be.

Wanda arrives happily, carrying a very large box for the guests of honor, who have yet to arrive, and looking extremely beautiful in a wine red dress that compliments her skin wonderfully. She’s practically bouncing off the walls, looking around in awe at how pretty everything is, and Maria warns her to close her mouth before something flies in it, sounding all the while like a very stern mother. Natasha knows she’s tense, knows her shoulders are up by her ears and she’s picking at her cuticles (her nail lady is going to  _ kill _ her) but her friends ignore it, and the lack of attention to her strangeness makes the tension drain out of her body slowly. 

A few dozen more guest arrive sporadically for about 15 minutes, and they all come to greet Sam and Maria, the technical hosts, before donating their gifts to the giant pile of them already waiting. The orchestra is playing something jovial and quick and Natasha is easing into the feeling of being surrounded by other people when Steve and James walk into the venue. She sees the immediately, as embarrassing as that is, and gasps quietly at the sight of James in his suit. It’s not black like the majority of the men in the room, but instead a slim dark gray thing that hugs the breadth of his shoulders with something like grace. He seems comfortable in formal wear, not fidgeting with his tie like his best friend next to him, but he seems a little paranoid at the sight of all these people gathered in one place. Natasha can’t say she blames him, and then remembers that he was a soldier and understands his unease. The last of her discomfort dissolves when she remembers that, remembers that he deserves to feel like he belongs somewhere, and she makes her way through the few clusters of people to speak to him and Steve as soon as possible. 

Planting herself in front of the two men and squaring her shoulders, “Hello boys,” she smirks. Her appearance startles a laugh out of Steve, who moves to hug her around the waist politely, and an answering wry grin from James. Pulling away from Steve she spins in a circle, “Well, what do you think?” trying to sound as open and conversational as possible.

“You look great, as usual Nat,” Steve smiles genuinely at her. They both turn to James expectantly.

“James?” she raises her eyebrow, “Thoughts?” and she asks confidently but she doesn’t mean it. She isn’t really sure she wants to know what he thinks. She’s pretty sure that she likes him now. That knowledge makes her antsy because she hasn’t felt this kind of “like” in a while.

The grin on James’s face falls, and so does the one on Natasha’s at that sight. They’re just staring at one another, Steve mostly forgotten, when James says: “You’re nervous?” with this curious, worried look on his face that makes Natasha want to positively melt. His voice is low and a little rough, hoarse even, around the edges, and when he steps forwards to give her the same polite hug that Steve did, his right hand rubs a quick, soothing circle over her back. Natasha stiffens a little before relaxing into the hug and placing her hand, very carefully, on his arm.

“No,” she says, very sure now.

“Good. You’re beautiful,” he states simply, as if it’s a fact, stepping away from her now. They’re still standing a little closer than normal, but that’s okay because now Natasha really can smell his cologne and it’s _ sweet _ , so unlike what she’s used to. The scent doesn’t tickle her nose and make her want to cough, it wraps itself around her lungs and makes her want to cling. She fights down a blush at the notion of clinging to James Barnes in any capacity.

“Thank you. I wasn’t too sure about- about this dress. It’s a little flashy for my taste.”

“I can tell. You keep smoothing it down, like you’re trying to rub something off the skirt.”

“Very perceptive, you,” she smiles softly.

“Very perceptive, I,” he rolls his eyes at his own flirting and both of them laugh a little.

“Uh,” Steve says eloquently. They both look up at him and he looks slightly uncomfortable, if reluctantly fond of the both of them.

“Uh?” Natasha challenges. 

“Is there a problem?” James quips.

Shaking his head quickly, Steve feigns nonchalance, “Nothing, nothing. Just-well- okay, nothing at all. I’m gonna go get a drink,” and like that he’s gone.

“I’d tell you that he’s not always like that but it’d be a damn lie,” James snorts, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing staff member smoothly and offering one to her.

“He’s not particularly… subtle,” she agrees.

They spend the rest of the party together. It begins with that first glass of champagne and is solidified when Pepper and Tony arrive, arm and arm and beaming with the surprise of it all (though Tony tries to pretend like he’s too cool for the whole ordeal and thoroughly unimpressed with the planning), and Natasha and James greet them together, holding hands themselves. All the while, Natasha forgets to be scared about what it means. She forgets that the last man to hold her hand and call her “Tasha” stepped on her ribs once and bruised her neck with the ring of his hands. She forgets that the last man she slow danced with, really held onto and whose shoulder she rested her head upon, made her feel worthless and disposable for years. And she forgets because James’s hand is steady on the small of her back, always following the heat of her body and never shoving her in any direction. He laughs at her when she wants him to; he laces their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to want to feel her pulse in the palm of his hand. Natasha is dizzy with the exhilaration of it, the newness of it. He smiles down at her whenever she says something clever to their friends, surprised by her dry humor and it makes Natasha warm down to her toes. He squeezes her tight to his side and her hand goes to grip the knot of his toe reflexively, it’s just at the right height, and she can feel the faint throb of his heart under her hand, but he doesn’t seem to mind the vulnerability. The physicality of him alone is enough to have her as giddy as a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Are you having a good time?” he husks in her ear later in the evening. The night’s just about wound down, leaving their group of friends plus the last of the staff in the venue alone. James abandoned his suit jacket sometime in the night, maybe after his 3rd glass of champagne and before he switched to the one whisky he’s still nursing, hours later, and he’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, showing off his ink. All of them have migrated to one end of the table since the other 50 or so guests have left, and they’re just shooting the shit for a while since they still have the venue for a while. Natasha’s seat has been dragged incredibly close to James’s, something that did not go amiss with a certain Steve Rogers, and she lies her head on his shoulder so he can’t see her blush when she answers.

“Yes,” she whispers, but she knows he can hear, “I’ve had an amazing time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Chapter 2 will be posted soon (I've already written it, so don't be worried), and is through Bucky's POV. It'll cover the unfolding of their relationship, and finally get to the schmoopy fluff I promised. Comments and kudos are very welcome! Follow me on twitter @nataliabarncs


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're together. They talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so bad at summaries LMFAO but yeah, this chapter is definitely shorter than that 12k monster of an opener, so sorry bout that, but it's through Bucky's POV, so I hope that makes up for it??? Very fluffy, /very/ poetic (surprisingly enough) and you get to know everyone else a little bit more. Yay! Please enjoy

It’s new, and it’s strange, but Bucky is pretty sure he loves it.

He isn’t in love with her, of course not, it’s too early, and she hasn’t seen, but still. This is amazing, where they’re at, and he’s content to stay here forever. He hasn’t had this luxury in years, the luxury of comfortable silence, and shared space and skin and air with someone who could hold all the secrets of the world in the cadence of their laughter. He looks at her some mornings and he’s surprised that all of her fits in his bed because she houses infinities.

The party was the beginning of it all; not the first time he’s looked at Natasha and considered what her body would feel like under his hands, but the first time he felt her, or any woman for that matter, and didn’t want to do anything more than that. He doesn’t know what came over them that night. They’d barely spoken before and knew little of each other aside from recounts from Steve, whose judgement couldn’t be trusted on a good day, and both of them had a streak of trust issues many many miles wide, so for them to just...come together was strange.

They move slowly. After Tony and Pepper’s party, that he was basically forced to show up to, they fall together in easy harmony and they move slow. They spent the entire night touching; his hand entwined with hers, their shoulders brushing, her head against his chest as they danced, and not once did he ever want it to stop. Bucky’s a tattoo artist, and a damn popular one at that, so he spends a lot of time touching bare skin, but it’s different with Natasha. Touching her isn’t like touching Steve, whose reactions he knows like a well loved book, or touching Clint, who’s like an overzealous puppy most days, and is on a totally different spectrum from touching clients. Touching Natasha is like blowing glass probably. He feels the inherent need to be careful, to devote focus and care to each caress of her skin as if she might break. And he knows that she won’t, he knows that Natasha can and has handled more than her fair share of not so delicate touches, it’s in the way she looks at large men sometimes, but he’d rather her never ever even think about looking at him the same way, so that’s how it is. Careful. They’ve kissed, Natasha’s a wonderful kisser, her lips are soft and she sometimes lets out these sort of unconscious little gasps of pleasure that make her fingers tighten their grip on him, and they’ve held hands and it’s been. It’s been slow and careful and Bucky finds that he doesn’t mind. After what seems like a lifetime of nonstop movement, of rushing and gasping and screaming, it’s nice to have something in his life that’s at a snail’s pace, so that it’s easy to keep up with. Bucky finds that he likes having something to hold.

“It was disgustingly sweet,” Tony states with a distasteful twist of his mouth and flopping onto the couch in the main lobby of Bucky’s shop, “I almost wanted you both removed from the premises.”

“By whom?” Bucky scoffs. He himself is standing behind the “reception” counter, tapping away on the iMac there. It’s completely too flashy and mostly a nuisance, meaning Tony insisted on having it, and the only thing Bucky really uses it for is downloading illegal movies to watch in between appointments or walk ins.

“Anyone I could pay to do so. I wouldn’t stand for being upstaged at my own celebration,” Tony waves a hand airily, closing his eyes on a dreamy sigh. Really, it’s his shop. He bought it years ago, after Rhodey vouched for Bucky’s strong character, and Bucky has operated it since. He’s eternally grateful for the opportunity having been placed in his lap; he loves tattooing and he loves being his own boss, but he could definitely do without Tony’s incessant, extremely hyperverbal presence sometimes. One of those being right now. Bucky continues clicking around on the computer like he’s doing anything more important than updating the shop’s twitter.

“Of course not,” he deadpans.

“I’m serious. You were all staring at each other adoringly, like nervous teenagers on prom night or something,” and that statement makes Bucky want to grin and also groan, but he does neither and instead focuses his attention on not blushing. He’s the nightmare of many men, a trained killer, and he’s been promptly turned into a 15 year old boy over the thought of Natasha Romanoff’s smile.

“Not that you would know, right? Weren’t you going to prom at age 7 or something like that?”

“I was a very observant 7 year old.”

“ _That’s_ creepy.”

The door opens, the bell above it tolling happily, “What creepy things are we discussing?” Steve asks as he bustles in. He’s very large and the space in the front really isn’t, especially with it being occupied by two grown men already. Bucky hates crowded places a little bit, so he just points over his shoulder at the “break room”, instructing Steve to move back there with all of the bags of food he’s carrying.

“Tony’s disturbing lack of social skills. It seems the issue stems from a sudden exposure to “no no” touching at a very young age,” Bucky mutters darkly.

Tony squawks, “That was _funny_ ,” he gasps, “You made a _funny_ joke! What’s gotten into you?” he teases. Bucky rolls his eyes and flips him the bird with a hearty “fuck off” and leaves him alone in the reception area. The sign is still turned to _Open!_ and if anyone walks in they’ll get to meet a celebrity, so he’s not really too worried about leaving his work unattended. Clint and Bruce won’t be in until later, considering it’s a Tuesday afternoon it’s not exactly rush hour for getting tatted, and Bucky’s pretty much got the day to himself. At 5 he has an appointment with a returning client but for the most part his schedule’s been clear all day and it’s been nice.

“More like _who’s_ gotten into you,” Steve snickers as Bucky shuts the lounge door behind himself. This time he really does groan.

“What the hell,” he whines, throwing himself into a foldout chair. Steve is still snickering, the little fucker, as he digs through his many takeout bags for a spoon.

“Sorry, sorry but I _had_ to,” Steve giggles, going a little red in the face.

“I think Tony’s rubbing off on you,” Bucky snorts, taking his own bag and giving it a thoroughly assessive shake. Steve always orders Bucky as much food as he eats and sometimes it’s wonderful, like today when Steve has decided that his temple could go for the healing properties of fried foods. The grease is practically calling Bucky’s name.

“I _know_ someone’s rubbing off-,” Steve starts excitedly.

Bucky throws a fry at his face, “That’s enough pal,” he grunts.

Natasha’s not rubbing off on him, in the biblical sense. There’s no rubbing, like, at all, and even if there were it’d be none of anyone’s business, not even Steve’s. Bucky likes what they’ve got. He likes that she’ll spend the night at his place some nights just to get out of her own apartment, and that she’ll tell him as much. He likes that she stretches while she makes eggs. He doesn’t want her to rub off on him. Well, he does but she doesn’t have to, he doesn’t need her to. He could have sex with many girls, he has had sex with many girls, but he can’t sketch the pads of their fingers from memory, or feel comfortable enough with any of them to even consider falling asleep with his head in their laps. Bucky forgot how much he likes the feeling of fingers running through his hair for something other than to pull him closer. He forgot how much enjoys the closeness of someone so small and sweet, who smells so good. And Natasha has made him remember. There hasn’t been any rubbing off of any sort, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say as much to Steve though, or Tony, because the jokes would never stop if they started.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right,” Steve agrees through a mouthful of food. He’s sprawled in all of his blonde glory across the ratty sofa in the corner comfortably, “It’s just weird, y’know? I finally got some dirt on ya and I don’t even wanna really use it.”

“That wasn’t you using it?”

“No, that was me considering the use of it. Testin’ the waters, yeah?” he smirks.

“What’s stoppin’ you from usin’ it then?” and Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him.

Steve gets this look on his face now, the one that he’d get all the time when they were kids sitting on his fire escape asking each other questions. They’d talk about all sorts of things; about what they were going to do when they grew up, how they felt about kisses, Steve’s many trips to the hospital, and Steve would always get this look on his face like he was thinking of a master plan. He’d tilt his head and grimace a little, as if he were trying to stop himself from both frowning and smirking smugly, and his brow would furrow before he bit his lip, just like right now, and would speak with startling clarity about all of his thoughts.

“It’s just the way you two are, I guess,” he shrugs, “I guess I don’t want to really laugh it at too much. It’s… god you’re gonna make fun of me forever- it’s just real special,” he states finally, “It’s special as hell. Haven’t seen you like this with a girl in all the years I’ve known you.”

Bucky hesitates a little. They’ve not had a conversation take such a sharp turn for the serious that hasn’t turned into an argument in a while, “Yeah.”

“And it’s good. I think she’s good for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too, actually. I think she’s good for me.”

***

Sometimes Natasha gets stressed out. In the month following the party she gets stressed out. The audition for _Apollo_ , the one that Steve had been so nervous about too, went well she said, but because of the amount of people at their studio decisions on roles always take forever, and also, both Steve and Natasha are pretty sure that their directors just enjoy torturing them. Sometimes she’ll come over to his apartment and her feet will be in the beginning stages of forming these ghastly bruises. Her ankles will be little swollen, her toes turning a little purple, and she’ll sit down next to him on the couch and shove her cold icicle feet under his thighs with a wince. Bucky’s often torn between wanting to keep her warm and not hurting her so her buys her like 12 pairs of these amazingly fuzzy socks that Rebecca liked when he bought her them for Christmas a few years ago. Natasha’s own eyes go wide and privately happy when he slides them on to her aching feet himself. He suspects that the him sitting on her feets hurts a hell of a lot more than she reveals, even on accident, but she still tries it because she likes having to sit real close to him. Whenever she’s not working her feet bloody she’s exercising. She trains harder than he expects most ballerinas train. Steve has been dancing for years, since they were really little, but he’s never seen his best friend work himself the way Natasha does and it’s a little worrying. They don’t see each other every day, especially on days when she mentions, albeit reluctantly, that she’s feeling a little frazzled, and so Bucky’s guessing that those are the days she pushes herself the hardest. When he does see her again she looks ragged, like a tired princess, and she complains about muscle cramps until he gives her a massage. She’ll also snap at him, sometimes. Natasha told him within maybe the first few days of them “getting together” (considering they haven’t even made it official yet), that she hasn’t really been sleeping well because of all of the stress of a new production, and it makes her mean. She’d said it guiltily, like she felt bad for something that she couldn’t control, and he’d assured her that his bed was always open to her. So yeah, sometimes she does show up at midnight to sleep in his bed and sometimes she really will sleep the whole night through, but that’s maybe 3 or 4 times a week and all of the other days he can’t really be sure if she’s up all night torturing herself with memories or what. The lack of sleep makes her irritable, so he’ll be being cool and asking her if she wants food or something and she’ll just get unbelievably pissed off. Natasha isn’t a loud talker, she doesn’t really yell and hates it when other people do, but in moments like those her voice gets louder than usual and cracks and breaks like she’s reached the end of a rope Bucky often forgets she’s holding. Usually she apologizes later.

Steve and Clint are over after one of those breakouts, it’s 7 pm on a Saturday and Natasha left at maybe 5 because she was pissed off at him for asking what she’d eaten for lunch. He called them probably 30 minutes later in a slight panic because he didn’t know what to do and he didn’t want Natasha to hate him and he always wanted her near, hated when she left because she was teaching him how to not be so alone all the time and he needed a little noise in the apartment when smoking his way through an entire pack of cigarettes and singing emo rock to himself didn’t really work.

“When the fuck are the roles gonna be posted anyway? I’m sick of this shit,” he complains, sipping on a beer.

“ _You’re_ sick of this shit?” Steve scoffs, elbowing Clint next to him in a way that meant _can you believe this guy?_ and making Clint spill his cup of coffee on himself.

“Aw coffee _no_ ,” he whines, looking back up to Bucky sadly. And Bucky would feel bad for making fun of the stain on his pants all night, but he’s having Relationship Trouble and as the only one of them in a potential long term relationship, he gets a free monthly pass for being a douche nozzle in order to blow off some steam. Women’ll do that to you.

Two weeks after this conversation, the roles are posted. It’s a Tuesday and he’s at work, but Steve isn’t with him because he knew that role were going to be posted and he’d wanted to see first hand. Once again, Tony is sprawled out on the couch dramatically, looking like someone should be fanning him and feeding him grapes, but Clint’s around too, watching videos of babies giggling (or something) on Youtube, keeping a straight face all the while. Bucky is cleaning off his tools after having finished a job when Natasha calls him.

“You busy?” she asks when he answers the phone. Bucky looks down at himself; ratty old jeans and a white t-shirt with a hole in the collar and a little bit of blood on the hem.

“Nope, just cleanin’ up around the shop. What’s up dollface?” he replies, glaring at Tony and giving him the finger when he makes a fake gagging noise at the nickname. Natasha doesn’t mind, sort of not so secretly loves it, in fact, so he feels no qualms about being disgustingly domestic.

“You wanna go to dinner with me? Or well,” she pauses, probably looking at the time. It’s 3:20, “late lunch? There’s this Peruvian place right near the shop I’ve been meaning to-,”

“Yeah, yeah sure hun. When ya gonna be here? I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

She giggles, “God,” she sighs dreamily, “I dunno, maybe half an hour? You don’t have to get all gussied up for me there, babycakes,” she laughs, putting on the thickest, most ridiculous Brooklyn accent in her patented imitation of him. He switches the phone from in between his left shoulder to his right and rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“Haha, real fuckin’ funny.”

“Oh I know,” she’s still laughing. Tony’s now pretending to be choking to death and miming to Clint that he’s in desperate need of the Heimlich maneuver. Clint looks stricken and Bucky is trying to ignore them both.

“Yeah you’re a right laugh riot,” he mutters, laying it on thick for her, making her gasp with laughter, “I just gotta change is all. I’m sort of gross.”

“Oh,” she sputters, stopping her laughter, “Oh who fucking _cares_? I got the role, Jamie,” she gasps, and Natasha only calls him that _never_ , and Bucky’s eyes go wide. He’s so proud of her, he knows she’s tearing up and not trying to hide it at all, “I got the _fucking_ part!” she all but squeals.

“Oh,” he sighs, “Oh, oh, _baby_ ,” he says solemnly, because what else can he say? What else could he _possibly_ say? He knows how hard she’s been working herself for this, for a part that she hadn’t even been promised, he knows how talented she is; he’s seen her dance. He doesn’t know, really, what this means to her or really anything about the ballet at all, but he knows that he’s so, so fucking proud of Natasha for this. He’s proud because she’s proud, he can hear it in her voice, and that’s everything, that little diamond of hope in her throat.

“Yeah,” she breathes, like a benediction.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, but it’s-,” she begins to shake off the praise but Bucky shakes his head like she can see him, standing and gathering his shit to bolt out of the shop and to his apartment for clothes that aren’t disgusting. This moment deserves clothes that aren’t disgusting.

“Shut up,” he commands quietly, “You shut up right now. I’m proud of you. End of discussion. Nothing you can say is going to make me unproud of you, so just accept it. Accept, right now, that I think you’re so talented and special and that I think you deserve this role more than anyone at that company, because I _do_ ,” he’s breathing heavy when he’s done, panting a little in passion. Tony and Clint are wearing matching looks of surprise at his outburst.

“Okay.”

“Yeah.” They hang up and when he sees her, 30 minutes later as she walks down the hall on his floor, she’s beautiful. Her hair’s still in its ballet bun, but it’s coming undone. There’s a faint flush to her skin and her _smile_ , shit, her smile, God spent a little extra time on the curve and sparkle of that damn thing because as soon as Bucky sees it wrap itself around her face he lights up his damn self. He feels the power of that fucking smile right in his gut and he goes sniper still as she runs towards him, her feet silent on the carpeted floor of his hallway, because he’s just so damned shocked and proud and awestruck by whatever angel he’s managed to call down into his life. She wraps her tiny, strong arms around his tightly, gripping him like a lifeline and he picks her off of the floor, just a little, and they stand there, hugging and rocking, while she runs her fingers through his hair like she does on the couch when his head’s in her lap.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he mumbles into her neck.

“I’m proud of me too.”

***

Bucky’s apartment isn’t anything special. He lives out in Brooklyn so there are lots of old buildings that have been refurbished and gentrified by hipsters with too much time and money on their hands and his is one of them. It’s a studio flat, sort of, except there’s a stairwell that leads up to what should be an office and is instead, where Bucky keeps all of his his past. And books. They’re taken from a lot of different places; some of them he purchased himself, or was given by townspeople he met in passing, and some of them were given to him by the family members of his dead friends from the war. It should be utterly depressing up there, it’s very cold sometimes and always dark, no matter what, and the relics of dead people’s lives should do nothing more than darken the place further, but they make Bucky comfortable. He likes looking at Alderson’s things and remembering how the guy turned a page in a book when he could get his hands on one. He likes looking at the action figures Montgomery’s mother parted with, in her teary eyed, sniffling way at the memorial, and thinking about how passionate the fucker could get over the whole Star Trek versus Star Wars debacle. He thinks having the little mementos around remind him that those things really did happen, even when all of the bad was happening too. At night, he opens the tiny little window up there and smokes a few cigarettes if he can’t sleep. Downstairs he has the world’s smallest, and cleanest kitchen, where most of the limited counter space is taken up by cook books and spice racks. His bed is nestled into a corner, enclosed by a huge dresser on one side and a drafting table on the other, to give him some semblance of privacy when he sleeps and the blankets have an obnoxiously high thread count, because unlike a lot of his veteran friends, the softer the bed is for him, the better.

His apartment isn’t really much, but it’s more than Natasha’s, whose own apartment is decorated impeccably and impersonally, so they spend a lot of time there. She likes that there aren’t a lot of doors and walls everywhere, obstructing her vision (so does he) and throwing the light around to cast shadows. She says she likes his hardwood floors too, that they remind her of the first ballet studio she ever danced in, and the small, nostalgic smile she gets when she walks into his place and slides off her shoes sort of makes Bucky melt. Natasha lights incense in his apartment too, something she doesn’t do at her own for some reason.

“I uh… I like the way the smoke looks,” she tells him when he mentions it, but the sentence perks up at the end like a question, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed to like something of his. He just nods though.

“Yeah? They smell real good doll,” he replies, letting her know that her motivation is a good enough answer for him.

“You like it?” and she’s a little unsure but she lights the stick on the stove anyway and brings it to the little holder sitting on his breakfast bar. Bucky does like it, maybe not as much as her, but he likes the way the scent clings to even her clothes when she leaves, so that they smell the same to other people, so he nods vehemently. Natasha is in these tiny little gray running shorts, she just returned from the gym, and her hair is a little damp with sweat, curling up behind her ears. She looks like a painting, like a dream, when she beams in surprise, not taking a single moment to let herself be ashamed of her joy at his admission. That makes Bucky smile too.

“I do.”

“There’s this place on 5th that sells paddywax candles,” she mentions excitedly, “Can we- I can buy those too,” and this all sounds like a question coming from the mouth of a too often scolded, hopeful child but Bucky doesn’t interrupt her because he likes that she’s enjoying this, “They smell amazing.”

“Yeah? We should get those too,” he says, staring her right in the eyes. He’s on the couch, he’s yards away, and he can’t touch her, but she relaxes into him anyway. Her shoulders, braced for a verbal blow, sag in relief, and she coughs to herself, fighting off what Bucky knows was probably a pretty giddy laugh. He pretends not to know though,

“Definitely, if you want.”

“I want.”

So for the next few weeks she just accumulates all of these candles, and Bucky finds them everywhere. Sometimes she’ll come over to his place while he’s at work and when she’s done rehearsing and drop them off, so when he does get home, there’s a new scented something on his dresser, or coffee table, or in the kitchen. She gets like 3 candle lighters; one stays in the drawer of takeout menus in the kitchen, one stays in his junk drawer in his “bedroom”, and the other stays in the living room on top of _their_ stack of tattoo and gardening magazines. At one point they’re in her car, that she admits to very rarely driving, and he finds a bag of them in back on the floor when he’s reaching back there to grab her purse. He doesn’t react to it, just smiles a little to himself before actually locating her bag and handing it to her. Bucky really likes the candles, but he does wish, just a little, that she would feel comfortable enough in her own house to light them there too.

***

The key thing is sort of a running joke. No one really laughs at them, it’s not a real funny joke or anything like that, it’s just that everyone’s aware of it and they’re not exempt from being teased even though they’ve only been together for a few short months. It’s possible that the teasing is because they’ve only been together for a few short months, but whatever. The point is, everyone knows that Natasha has a key to Bucky’s apartment and they know that the reason the place smells like a new age hippie shop is because she’s basically got free range of the place, and Tony and Clint are particularly fond of bringing up how whipped he is. Their reign of terror comes to heights one Friday night when they’re gathered at his place, along with Steve and Sam, watching all of the films Tony has had a hand in producing. There a surprising lot to choose from.

“And where’s the missus now Barnes?” Tony asks innocently as he perches himself on the edge of the sofa with a glass of wine. Everyone else is drinking beer. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“She does have her own apart-,” he begins exasperatedly, just as the lock on the front door starts jiggling. It gets stuck sometimes, so you have to hold the knob at an angle and wiggle it around to get the key mechanisms to work, but the only people who really have to know that are Bucky himself, Steven Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff. Bucky is immediately fighting a blush as he remembers that two of those people are already in the house.

When Natasha stumbles in her hair’s a little wet from a shower, it’s too late in the evening for her to have been working out and it’s not raining, and her face is free of makeup, even concealer. She’s started doing that less, wearing concealer, around him, so he sometimes sees the dark circles under her eyes, but tonight isn’t one of those nights. Tonight, she’s got her overnight bag in one arm, her reading glasses on her nose (meaning she _drove_ over), and a smile on her face as she drops her keys in the dish by the door and pulls the running shoes off of her feet. Everyone in the room but him goes unnoticed and she sets her bag down before walking over to him, standing on one side of the breakfast bar in the kitchen, with an intent look in her eyes. She’s lithe and amazing. Steve, sprawled in Bucky’s bed like royalty, is staring at them with wide, awestruck eyes and Tony looks like a kid in a candy shop. Clint, who hasn’t met Natasha, is completely floored, but their presence falls to the wayside for him too.

“Missed you,” she admits quietly, coming up to him and wrapping her arms around his back tightly. She’s up on her toes to hug him, and that knowledge has always made him hold her to him tighter than he’s held just about anyone.

Kissing her forehead, he pulls her in to get his hands in her hair, “Missed you too babe,” he tells her, soothing the tension he sees in her shoulders. Bucky doesn’t know exactly why she needs the reassurance so much, why she needs to know that he wants her as much as she wants him, but he’s always happy to give it to her. He can’t give Natasha much; she has her own money, place to stay, friends, but he’ll always give her what he can when she wants it. He hopes she knows as much. He gives her a sweet peck on the lips in promise.

They stand there hugging for a moment, eyes closed as they cling to one another before Tony starts positively _cackling_ , “Oh my god!” he gasps, “Oh my _god_ , this is fantastic. This is amazing!”

Bucky, surprised at the sudden noise, jumps away from Natasha, who does the same and is quickly self conscious in the midst of his, touching her hand to her wet hair like she’s instinctively trying to hide it. Also on instinct, they drift right back into each other’s space, this time Bucky moving Natasha’s hand to wrap around his wrist and draping his own arm over her shoulders. He’s completely forgotten why he’d been in the kitchen in the first place, but that doesn’t really matter, and he rolls his eyes at his friend.

“Fuck off Tony,” he glares.

Natasha, coming back to herself and sliding into the role she’d been playing the first time they met, narrows her eyes, “What’s so funny?” she asks coolly. Clint is enraptured, it seems, his eyes drifting between Bucky and Natasha and Natasha and Tony like he’s watching a riveting soap opera, and his voice absolutely silent. Bucky is secretly grateful for that, he can’t imagine what the hell would come out of his friend’s mouth right now.

“ _That_!” Tony wheezes, still in the throes of laughter, gesturing at the two of them, “ _That’s_ what’s so funny. You _missed him?_ You _missed him_?” and he’s absolutely indignant in his laughter, like this is the funniest most unbelievable thing on the face of the earth and he cannot fathom the possibilities that have been presented to him. Tony is awful. “How could you have missed each other? It’s been a _day_ ,” and he’s positively hollering with laughter.

Bucky tightens his arm around Natasha some, he can feel her both shrinking in on herself and widening her stance like she’s ready to hide from him and fight him at the same time. Knowing Natasha, it’s possible, but he doesn’t want her to feel like she has to do that. He knows, from their many late night conversations, that she’s never dated someone she’s wanted to tell everything to and that she tries really hard to be honest with him as often as possible, because she’s spent a lot of time saying what someone else wanted to hear in past relationships, and for her to feel uncomfortable with her honesty in Bucky’s home is unacceptable. He’s still glaring at Tony.

“Hey, Tony, stop,” Steve pipes up from across the room, putting on that voice that makes everyone in the room want to listen to him. Tony, who is still laughing, does quiet down some at its appearance,but he waves his hand dismissively too.

“I’m sorry it’s just... _what_ the hell have you two done with Barnes and Romanoff? Seriously? Are you keeping them in the creepy attic room? Or maybe in the basement?”

Nat rolls her eyes, bracing herself for impact, “Puh- _lease_ ,” she snorts, “Amatuer hour much? They’re in the walls of the empty apartment two doors down.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Clint whines suddenly. Everyone’s attention snaps to him.

“What?” Steve asks in his “concerned adult” voice.

“I think I love her,” he sighs, leaning back into the couch like he may just melt right through it. Steve rolls his eyes Natasha smirks smugly. Bucky resolutely does _not_ think the same thing. 

After that, Tony cracks as many jokes as he wants about them all the time, even when Natasha’s around, and Clint pretty much follows her around like some kind of lost puppy. She seems to enjoy the company though, honestly, so they strike up a very unlikely seeming friendship. Bucky hasn’t the slightest clue as to what they talk about; Natasha seems too serious for Clint’s taste and Clint might actually just be in love with Natasha, so he doubts that would be a comfortable position to be in, but they’re sort of inseparable and it’s really nice to see. Sometimes when Clint’s at the shop he’ll mention something he and Nat did or somewhere they went or something she said it fills Bucky with this unprecedented satisfaction at the fact that his friends like his...Natasha. If she’s over while they’re hanging out, she’s just one of them, and Bucky likes that, he likes that there’s space for her in his life and he didn’t have to force it to exist. Natasha just fits.

***

Bucky still has nightmares. He’s been dealing with them for years, so he knows what to do in the face of them, but he’s pretty sure Steve thinks that having her around has cured him of all sleep related ailments and that’s just not true. It’s also just not Natasha’s responsibility. Bucky knows that some of his demons have preferred lullabies; drink for some, and a vice with more violent tinges for others, but he knows that Natasha is neither so it isn’t her job to rock them to sleep. He’d never want to use her as crutch the way he did with those other things, because while he wants to keep her near forever, wants to hold her close and breathe her in and never let her leave him, he also wants her to want to stay, and she won’t _want_ to if he needs her like that; she’ll feel like she _has_ to. Natasha deserves the choice to stay, and Bucky knows better than most of her friends how it had been taken away in the past. So he still has nightmares, but the coping skills he’s developed in the last two years are what get him through, not Nat. And that’s okay. Bucky is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

Usually, when Bucky has nightmares, he just jolts awake. One moment he’s asleep and the next his eyes are open and he’s sniper still, paranoid as hell and unmoving in his fear. When that happens, he waits for his nerve endings to wake up and he gets up, grabs the pack of cigarettes on his drafting table, a lighter, and walks upstairs to his room of relics. He slides open the little window and sits under it and chain smokes like a fucking chimney, until his lungs are aching and heavy with the abuse and his eyes are watering from the smell and finally tired enough to fall shut on their own and let him _sleep_.

They’ve been together for 4 months when he wakes up in the middle of the night running from the kind of dream that makes a man forget who he is. His heart is pounding in his ears and his eyes have not forced themselves open yet. Instead the constant crush of memory is keeping his eyelids squeezed together and he just keeps seeing that room over and over again. He sees the light hanging over him, he sees the spread of medical instruments laid out like an artist’s palette next to his head, and he cannot pull himself out of it. Logically, Bucky knows that he’s back in Brooklyn, he’s in bed next to Natasha, it’s Wednesday night, but to him the sheets tugged around his body feel like the leather straps that had held him down, and his left arm is totally numb, a cold and unknown void no longer connected to his body. He’s wide awake but aware of too many realities. He’s aware of the one that includes the excruciating, soul eating pain of being slowly torn apart, and he’s aware of the one that includes too soft sheets and hair that smells like vanilla. Both are totally overwhelming and he wants to scream but Bucky can’t find his throat and everything is too much, too cold, too heavy, and all he knows is that he doesn’t want to be this he doesn’t want to be here, he wishes he could just disappear, be swallowed up, entirely whole for the last time, because this is just- this is too,-

“James!” Natasha whispers urgently, snapping him out of his state of paralysis. Bucky quakes awake, for real this time, sitting up with a gasp on the tip of his tongue and, suddenly, holding back a monsoon of tears.

“I-I-,” he wheezes, sounding like Steve when they were younger after playing a vicious game of tag, “I’m- I can’t-.”

Natasha, who must know more about dealing with this kind of thing than Bucky knew, does not touch him, but does unwrap him from their little cocoon of blanket gently. Her hands are quick and efficient but never rough and Bucky vaguely reminds himself to thank her for this, for being this.

“That’s okay,” she soothes quietly, her voice softer than he’s ever heard it before. Natasha is not one for the mushy feelings, and he knew as much going into this relationship, but he never expected how much effort she puts into not being _soft_. And it’s not that she’s mean, or coldhearted, not at all, because Natasha is everything but. She doesn’t like that vulnerability, he knows, and she finds it difficult to give that kind of care over to someone else, for fear that they may abuse it, so very rarely is Bucky on the receiving end of such tenderness. It’s both startling and comforting at the same time. “You’re okay,” she whispers calmly.

When she’s got the covers shoved down to the foot of the bed, Bucky is still sitting up ramrod straight in the bed, staring directly ahead of him, sweating and breathing heavily. The shaking his subsided some, thanks to his ability to just focus on Natasha being with him in the moment, but other than that he’s still tense and afraid. There’s a tumor of shame growing in the pit of his stomach too, one that’ll probably become debilitating and consuming and he’ll become mean and push her away and she’ll leave and he’ll have to be afraid again but alone too and he’s forgotten how to be that way because of her and it’s the worst thing to have to learn, he knows it, and he doesn’t want that he doesn’t want,-

“Hey!” she calls firmly, her voice rising in pitch slightly, “Breathe,” she commands, “Take a deep breath for me James,-” she demonstrates, “-in through your nose and out through your mouth, c’mon.”

They sit like that, both breathing and Natasha speaking, encouraging like a sleep rumpled sergeant, for what seems like hours. The fear, the shame, it builds as time passes but Bucky focuses in on the sound of Natasha’s voice, on the noisy hitch in her exhale that gives away her own panic, and he tries to figure out how the hell to come back to it, and ignores the screaming inside of himself. He knows it’s self centered, and he adds that shame to list of reasons why Natasha should walk away from this, from him, while she’s unscathed and sure of herself. But still. Her voice has all the gravitational pull of the moon and he feels like the unthinking wave pulled to tide.

When Bucky can find it in himself to lie backwards onto their heap of pillows again, Natasha breathes out what she thinks is an imperceptible sigh of relief. He blinks heavily before looking at the clock on his dresser, it’s 3:14 am, and he winces, peering up at Nat. She’s bleary with sleep, but her eyes are glittering like she’s trying to fight back even the barest suggestion of tears.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs finally. The shame creeps back into the forefront of his mind and he would love to not have to look at her for this, for the rejection and the fear part of it all, and while she tells him he needs help and that _she’s_ afraid, but he continues making eye contact anyway. Natasha has the prettiest eyes; Bucky sometimes feels like they hold the secrets of the future in them. He’s also, apparently, a masochist.

Natasha just shakes her head though, vehemently, almost angrily, definitely sadly, “No. You don’t apologize for that,” she hisses.

“It’s three in the morning-,” he begins to object, but she lets out an indignant noise and throws herself onto the pillows expressively.

“Three in the morning occurs every single day. I get to see it with you today,” she interrupts, “and don’t you apologize for it. So it’d be nice if we were awake due to different circumstances-,” he snorts and she pokes him hard in the bicep in retaliation, “-but this is what we’ve got. And I’m not glad that- well I’m not too happy that you have to deal with this and you’ve never said anything, but I am happy that I could help you. I’m glad I’ve got 3 am with you.”

“Nat-,”

“No. Shut up. I’m glad I’ve got 3 am with you. This 3 am. Because I’m glad I’ve got _you._ I want you. And if this is you, then I’m taking it. Gratefully.”

And they lie there in silence while Bucky tries to screw his head on straight again. He’s still ashamed, even after that beautiful admittance. He doesn’t want her to see him like that ever again. He’s supposed to be her rock in a steady, fast stream, he’s supposed to be calm when she’s not, and this, right here, is not calm. He’s supposed to keep her from flying apart, she’s told him as much, and he hasn’t a clue how he’s supposed to do that if he’s barely holding himself together. Bucky doesn’t want her to worry, either. He doesn’t want her to give him the looks that Steve did, all those years ago, like being his friend hurt. He’s ashamed that he’s still like this, that there hasn’t been any improvement and all of the mess in his head has been neglectfully shoved under his mind’s bed like the work of a lazy teen. And he’s afraid of Natasha tapping out because of it. He knows that right now, she thinks she’ll be able to fix and maintain all of the crumbling foundation inside of him, and that’s noble, it’s so wonderful, and it’s so _her_ that it makes his heart ache, but he also knows that she _can’t_ and that she’ll get tired and leave because of it. He’s scared of that. And he’s ashamed for himself for being afraid of that. James Barnes is a grown ass man with the capacity to kill, who has killed, who has held life in the palm of his hands and watched it run like a blood red river right before him, he shouldn’t be afraid of anything. But he’s scared to fucking death of this woman lying lightly on top of him in all of her five-foot-three-inches-and-hundred-pound glory.

“You shouldn’t have to-,”

“I want to, James. I’m fucking honored to,” she tells him fiercely, her tiny hand clenching in the fabric of his shirt. Somehow, he gathers his wits enough to remember how much she likes it when he holds her close, so he does, smushing her to his side and feeling her cling like a limpet in return. Tension in his shoulders loosen as she slides one lithe leg on top of his and angles her head to look up at him, “I want this so much.”

“You don’t,” he insists morbidly, “You _won_ ’ _t_.”

Natasha pauses thoughtfully, letting go of his shirt some. Bucky tries not to panic.

“My name isn’t Natasha, you know that?” she blurts suddenly. Bucky looks down at her in surprise.

“What?”

“I was born in Volgograd, Russia, like you know-,”

“-....yeah?”

“-and I was adopted by Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov. I grew up there until I was about 13 years old. But Natasha isn’t a really Russian name...well it is but not exactly, it’s very complicated, anyway. On my birth certificate my name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Really, my last name is Romanov, with a “v” but the Russian language has a lot of gender rules, even with names, so my father’s last name would have been Romanov and when my mother took it hers was Romanova. I’ve never met either of them, by the way, and I have no idea where Ivan is now. The last time I spoke to him I was 18 years old. We’d moved to Moscow, and I was boarding my flight to New York. My life in Moscow had not been a very _happy_ one, per se. I studied dance very intensely there, I performed at an opera house for the first time there when I was only 16 years old, and I fell in love with the art, but I wasn’t very happy. The company I danced for was very notorious for producing some of the greatest dancers, young greats at that, but they were very strict and...cruel, if you will.

“When I got to New York, I still wanted to train though. Like I said, I fell in love with ballet. I’d started dancing when I was just 6 years old, a late start for some, and I couldn’t imagine not doing it. So I trained at Dokoudovsky New York Conservatory of Dance, where they practice Russian techniques. The place is so old, and it’s in a rickety building with other studios too, and I absolutely loved it. The teachers there were so fascinated by my understanding of technique, they loved watching me dance and encouraged me to try other techniques as well. I grew to be really well rounded there, and I still go back to sit in on classes and visit my old instructors sometimes.

“I started dancing with American when I was 22 years old. It took me a while to get my feet wet; there are a lot of talented dancers and they all studied at, like, Juilliard and Joffrey so I was definitely not priority for the directors. But I grew to love the place. I didn’t have friends like I did at Dokoudovsky, no one to invite back to my shitty apartment and drink boxed wine with,” they both snort at that, but otherwise Bucky listens quietly, enraptured with the story. A lot of this stuff is unknown to him, as Natasha very rarely talks about her childhood, or any of her past really, in anything more than layman's terms.

“But I had Alexei,” she sighs sadly, “He was my _best friend_. I’d been at American for maybe three years when he came to the theater, and we hit it off very quickly. He wasn’t a dancer, he was a creative director, and when we got close I also began being cast in lead roles and many other dancers started making the connection very quickly, but I didn’t care. He wasn’t the reason why I was receiving recognition. I do believe that. I believe that I’ve gotten everything I deserve at that theater and I’m not going to let dressing room chatter make me doubt my own abilities, but yeah. Our friendship made other friendships impossible, so he was all I had. But I didn’t care.

“When Alexei asked me out I think he expected me to applaud him. The entire ordeal had been incredibly extravagant. He had flowers delivered to my dressing room every day for an entire week before our opening night of _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ , and when we wrapped he came down to congratulate me on a job well done with one last bouquet of flowers and this custom made card with silver lettering on expensive stationery. He had one of the violinists from the orchestra follow him, and his assistant had cooled champagne at the ready. I will admit I’d been impressed; no one had ever wanted my attention so badly.

“We dated for six years. The first was completely perfect. Almost every Saturday night was like that, can you believe it? He’d present these amazing, expensive dresses and gowns to me on a Thursday evening for me to try on, and if any tailoring needed to be done we’d rush order it for Saturday afternoon, so that by that evening I’d be decked in designer and gold for him to show off to all of his friends in the Hamptons and on the Upper East Side. His family was real old money, I think his grandfather was a Russian dignitary or something, and they adored me. His friends and his family looked at me like I was like the prettiest ornament on the Christmas tree. He loved that.

“Alexei hated his family though. He liked the money, and the appearance, and he liked having the two of us pictured in those rich people gossip magazines together as the cutest couple of the season, but he didn’t like being a Shostakova. He made people call him Alex. Within the first six months of us being together he started making really steep demands. He really didn’t like that I liked being a Romanova, and he asked me to consider “Americanizing” my name. His first suggestion had been outrageous, he wanted me to go by Natalie Rushman,” Bucky squawked indignantly.

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t want to change my name that drastically though, so I said that maybe I should take his last name, at least professionally. It would be a compromise. I’d still sound Russian, I didn’t want to let that go, annoyingly enough for him, but at least I’d be _his_ , right? He convinced me to take Natalie though. So we'd been together 5 months and I changed my name to Natalie Shostakova, and then we moved into a high rise in Manhattan together, as Alex and Natalie Shostakova.

“And I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, James, but I’ll say it anyway: He was abusive. I can say it now. At first, I could never admit it. I was ashamed of myself for having been so stupid, I knew it was stupid. He hadn’t even always been nice to me, James. Sometimes he would watch me rehearse and tell me that he couldn’t believe anyone could lift me. Or when I’d practice until my feet were bloody, he’d tell me I still wasn’t as good as someone else and that I needed to be better at something other than fucking him if I wanted an actual career. And that was in the beginning, that was when things were _perfect_. The longer we were together the worse it was,” Natasha pauses, taking a long steadying breath as if holding back tears. Bucky doesn’t know how she’s not sobbing, really. He can’t imagine dealing with that kind of betrayal from the one person who was supposed to be his everything, he can’t imagine walking away from it either. And he wants to be angry too, he wants to be furious at the time Natasha spent with this faceless waste of human life for everything he ever did to her, for every piece of a young, lively Natasha that he got to hold in his hands, but he isn’t. Bucky’s mostly just sad.

“He had all these rules. I wasn’t allowed to play my music at a volume level higher than 15, and after 7 pm it was 10. If I got in the bed with him after a morning workout and woke him up, he’d get so angry. I wasn’t allowed to have men in my car, -that’s why I never drive really, because of all the trouble that came with it,- and I couldn’t have any of my very few friends over on weekdays past six. If I broke any of those rules, the spoken ones, he’d punish me. He’d make me miss rehearsals so that I couldn’t learn choreography, and he’d take my keys sometimes so I couldn’t leave the building, because you needed the key to get back in. For breaking the unspoken rules… the punishment was-,” she swallows, “he’d hit me. I remember once I’d forgotten to put away his shaving kit for him, and when he walked into the bathroom and saw it he walked right out, grabbed me by the hair and dragged me from the kitchen and back into the bathroom. He backhanded me so hard that my lip split, and he made me look in the mirror at myself while I put everything away to show me how stupid I’d been. At some point I stopped messing up though, and so he had to find new reasons to be angry with me. I became one of those scary, self medicating Stepford wife drones.

“I knew Steve when we were together. We’d been together 2 years when I met Steve, and I was still putting everything I had into keeping that secret. Alex didn’t work at the theater anymore, so it was easier to keep quiet, and people were more willing to befriend me because of it. So I had Sam, and Maria, and eventually Wanda and Steve, to come to work to. But when things got worse, when Alexei would stop letting me go out and make me miss work more and more, they sort of drifted away, except Steve. I don’t really blame them, honestly. I can’t imagine what they thought was going on with me, but it couldn’t have been good, and I doubt they knew any way to approach whatever situation they’d thought up. Steve was different. He was just always there. He’d eat lunch with me, and he never asked to ride in my car, and he brought me numbing lotion for my feet so I wouldn’t be limping all over Alexei’s house. He told me, a few months ago, that that’s also when you started getting better. I think I helped him too. I think he needed someone else to project his worry on, because you didn’t want it.

“Steve never called me Natalie, James. It’s like he could tell I didn’t like it, and he always called me Nat. And when I switched to Natasha, finally, he didn’t even make a big deal out of it like everyone else did. The whole studio was like “What? Another name change?” and they were all making jokes about it, but Steve didn’t. He still always called me Nat. And when I left Alexei, I took the train to Steve’s place. That’s how I met Tony, because he called Pepper for help, and she and Tony are a package deal, and they came over with clothes for me to wear. Tony picked my car up for me and Pepper ran me a bath. She sat on the lid of the toilet while I soaked, didn’t say a word. Just asked me for his full name and address so that she could “send someone over in the morning”. I didn’t know what that meant but that afternoon all of my clothes were in boxes in Steve’s living room and I was signing off on a restraining order. I don’t know if Steve ever mentioned all of this to you, but I wanted to tell you anyway. Because this is what you get at 3 in the morning with me. I have nightmares too, I drink too much sometimes too,” she rolls her eyes, “but I don’t _chain smoke_ like a scorned teenage girl.”

It’s very quiet after that, of course. Bucky lies there and processes everything that she’s just told him. It’s closer to 4 am than 3 now, but Bucky’s wide awake and instead of feeling bad for himself, or Natasha, he feels stronger, clearer, like what she's just shared with him has given him the prescription glasses he hadn't realized he need. Bucky tugs her even closer to him. She’s breathing quickly and quietly, and he rubs his hand in a circle over her back in comfort. He’s not going to pretend like he’s not still shaken up by the dream, and maybe he’ll tell her about it later, but right now he just wants the warmth of her skin and the strength of her small fingers.

“Can I call you my girlfriend then?” he asks suddenly, when they’ve mostly drifted into serenity.

She takes a shaky breath, squeezing her crystal ball eyes closed, “Yes. If you want.”

“Can I call you Natalia?” he wonders softly, “my Natalia?”

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was good, lmao, I've never written Bucky like this before and I'm nervous. Moving on to our very last chapter, where there will be SEX, I hope you enjoyed this little sugar fest and comments and kudos are very welcome. Follow me on twitter @civilwore.


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